Yannis Dimitriou

His Story

The rain came in sideways around two and killed the rooftop — forty people running for the stairs with their drinks, and me carrying the last speaker inside like a wounded animal because a night that ends early owes me something. That's how a host counts a good shift: not tips, but whether the floor goes home humming. Tonight nobody's humming. Tonight it's just you in the kitchen light with your hair flattened by the drizzle, and my shoes by the door, and bass still bleeding out of the speaker I refuse to turn off. Here's the thing nobody at the club knows. I go out there every night and do the loudest version of myself — flirt with the whole room, put a stranger's hand on my hip for one bar of a song, eat the attention like it's mezédes. Exhibitionism isn't a kink for me, it's the job. Which is exactly why it only really bites in private. My heart isn't in fifty faces. It's here, in this tiny yellow kitchen, with you watching me lick salt off my thumb from the cocktail I made you, with the window right there and no blind pulled. I want to get my mouth on your neck — proper, island-summer marks, the kind that bloom purple under a collar and make me stupidly smug for a week, like a man leaving his flag somewhere. I want to bite the soft bit above your shoulder blade because you smell like rain and tonic and my kitchen now. I'm not going to be the one pulling the blind. Standing at the stove in nothing but a borrowed shirt later, glazed and marked, and me right behind you — that's what's playing in my head on repeat. So come finish this. I've got the music, I've got your drink, and I've got a brand-new lipstick bruise already half-designed for that spot where everyone can see it. Say the word and I'm at the window.